


Only For A Dance

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, As if Peggy wouldn't pull a gun on him, BAMF Peggy Carter, Fix-It, Gen, Hopeful Ending, How did he think this would go?, How would appearing on Peggy's doorstep actually go, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve Rogers can be a moron, Steve and Peggy both have their own lives to live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 19:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: How the Russos see it: "Peggy swoons as soon as Steve knocks on her door, dropping whatever she's holding at the time to fall into his arms."How it actually goes: There's anger, then there's a gun, and maybe, at some point, conversation.--Peggy doesn’t shift the gun and he doesn’t move, looks from it to her, and there’s an unsettled awkwardness that is very Steve that begins to draw into the situation. He’s holding flowers, which she feels tempted to fire a shot at principally, if nothing else because it is so unbearably ridiculous. Flowers. Even if he was himself, somehow disentangled from the ice, it would be utterly absurd.So sorry I dramatically flung myself into the ocean, but here are some daisies.And only Steve would think daisies would make the right kind of statement. A little bit, her heart clenches again.





	Only For A Dance

There’s a knock on her door, unexpected, and her fingers have brushed down to locate her pistol where it sits, pulling it out and into her hands in a smooth reflexive movement, letting it settle at her side as she moves slowly towards the noise. 

The war is over, but the war never truly ends for her, one battle after the next, always another head to cut off, always another enemy waiting in the wings, and all of that without the trouble merely knowing Howard Stark sends to her door, let alone associating with him in, hrm, some shadow of a fond fashion, her lips both thin and twist reflexively at the thought. 

She sets her eye to the contraption which the aforementioned cause of irritation had insisted on installing and peers through. A blink, her breath catches. 

The man on the other side of the glass is familiar, her mind processes, one beat at a time, tall, and broad, and blonde, standing at her door in a way she’s seen before, perhaps more than she’d care to admit, in idle daydreams that filled her mind, once upon a time. Steve strolling up to her front step, a sheepish smile on his face. But she’s long kabashed that as a period of her life ended, nowhere to go but forward, leaving the echoes of murmured goodbyes to the wind to be exactly that. 

She doesn’t think of Steve anymore, these days, except in passing fleets, and the sight of him now, when she has, perhaps, never thought of him less, does send her brain into a confusing whirl. It lasts a minute, a breath, an aching beat of her heart, but then tightens with furious resolve. Whomever is standing outside her door, hoping to confuse a would-be lovelorn, emotional woman with her flames of old has not done their homework this time. 

Whomever is standing outside her door is not the Steve Rogers who was meant to meet her for a dance. 

That Steve Rogers is gone. 

She is no fool. 

Somewhere, she knows she perhaps ought not to act at all, to alert SHIELD to the impostor, that the technology, or magic, or whatever the stone had been wrought of, is up to some new tricks. But this one is personal. 

She flings the door open and sets the gun on him, it, whatever this creature is darkening her doorway before so much as a breath can fill his lungs. He startles, but doesn’t move to attack in response, only gazes at her in something like wonder.

“Hey Peg.” His lips curve up slow and it’s a good likeness, she will admit, but the mannerisms are not quite right, he hasn’t gotten it all the way down in his rehearsals. Steve’s eyes, even after Bucky’s death, were clearer, she would not forget that, they were brilliant, and hopeful, and lovely, and this… this thing, has shadows that run deep, a dullness that reeks of imitation.

“I suppose,” She begins, disdain bitter on her tongue, “you have come to tell me you are here for our dance.” 

Peggy doesn’t shift the gun and he doesn’t move, looks from it to her, and there’s an unsettled awkwardness that is very Steve that begins to draw into the situation. He’s holding flowers, which she feels tempted to fire a shot at principally, if nothing else because it is so unbearably ridiculous. Flowers. Even if he was himself, somehow disentangled from the ice, it would be utterly absurd.  _ So sorry I dramatically flung myself into the ocean, but here are some daisies.  _ And only Steve would think daisies would make the right kind of statement. 

A little bit, her heart clenches again.

He shifts to run a hand through his hair and she takes a half step forward at the motion, gun tracking his limbs.

“Guess it sounds dumb when you say like that.” 

The temptation for the trigger is vast. 

“Are you alone?” Instead of answering, she lodges the question instead, her eyes scanning for other Hydra agents. Perhaps they are already in her house, waiting. It  _ was _ a bit foolish to simply charge out here. “If you have done your homework, which I assume, judging by your rather cheap ploy to disarm me, you have not, then you would be aware I do not keep anything useful in my place of residence, nor would I surrender to you any information I am aware of on any count. So I fear you have wasted whatever amount of work has been put into creating that.” 

Steve’s, no, not-Steve’s, chest is moving slowly up and down as though attempting to keep hold of himself in some way, and there’s a strange touch of pain, almost yearning, that richotes through his words which makes neither heads nor tails of sense to her. “Uh, yeah. It’s uhm, just me.” But also she doesn’t care. 

He takes another breath.

“I’m not. I mean.” He reaches into his bag for a minute and draws out his compass, opens it and twists it around to her, her likeness, which is no longer really her likeness, but a bit of a time capsule, she hasn’t worn her hair like that, for instance, in years. “I’m not Hydra, I’m…” He hesitates. “Me. I guess.”

She peers at the little piece of metal with a raise of her brow. “So you’ve selected the one item that has appeared on several intelligence videos as your  _ proof  _ of your-” Her brow wrinkles and she shakes her head. “You are not Steve Rogers. I can see it, you know it, your looks are quite exceptional, a job well done, though not without flaws, but you have completely failed to emulate behavior on all accounts, in ways which I will not outline for you, but are very clear to me.”

A little flinch runs through his body, which again, is a bit confusing, but if Hydra has shelled out money for a good actor, she has to congratulate them on at least investing in something all the way through.

She sighs again.

"We could end this far more quickly if you simply attacked.” She prods him. Maybe they’ve gone for Hollywood over training, again, a mistake, but she doesn’t run Hydra. If they want to send an actor more committed to form, and whatever disgustingly unimaginative narrative has manifested here, than his mission, that’s on their own heads. “I have dinner plans, and wouldn’t be keen to miss them.”

“I --” There’s a wonder in the words, some strange startling as though this is too off book for him. “I  _ am  _ him.” 

“Steve Rogers.” The patience in her voice is starting to wear thin, should she simply shoot him herself and end this? “Is lost somewhere in the Atlantic, his vessel has never been recovered, he has never been recovered, and though there is some possibility he would survive his incident, there is  _ no _ possibility he would have, himself, been able to find his way to my doorstep, as he would, I assure you, be quite frozen.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you trying to have me believe that you are he, somehow pulled from the ice, when even Howard’s trackers found nothing?” She snorts. “A tall tale, don’t you think?”

And this, Steve-figure, seems to be struggling now, as though he’s realizing he hadn’t thought this through all the way. There’s a tug of war behind his skull that she can see happening and finally with a sigh, he shrugs his shoulders to his ears. “Would you believe, uhm, all of that, and also…” His words drop off, thin, and then collect themselves, shoulders straightening, determined. “Time travel?”

Laughter finally parts her lips, but he only stands there with that bullish expression on his face, which, alright, is rather good. She can see hints of a smaller Steve lurking in there, for the first time, the familiar, indefatigable energy. 

But she shakes her head.

“No.” 

Silence fills the space between them.

\--

Against her better judgement, she allows him in the house, gun trained on him at all times, because it’s getting a bit chilly, and she’s tired of standing there staring at one another. 

He starts into a story, which has a fair amount of detail, and involves of all things Howard’s son, a space monster, the destruction of the universe, time travel, the reinstatement of the universe, and still more time travel. There’s a lot exhaustion that hangs his shoulders down in a way she has never seen on Steve, and a lot of scrapes of raw pain, which still, she is unsure she believes, but, having none of the context, couldn’t begin to inquire in on, even if she wanted to. 

In the meanwhile, she mulls over Steve, here, in her spaces where he has never been, conversing with her in a casual setting which they have never experienced, and it is all... very strange. All perhaps better in fantasy, which involves less complications and less of that incredibly insidious churning feeling that she is speaking to a stranger. 

Which, of course, she is. 

“Alright.” She interrupts him. “So, on the off chance that any part of that nonsense is possible or in fact transpired, you have ultimately, saved the future world?”

He nods. 

“And your...your team, your friends, they are, existent?” 

His face contorts in a kind of breathless pain that in that moment, she believes. There is loss there, real, wherever it comes from in truth. “More or less.” His whisper is faint. 

“But there is likely work still to be done?”

He nods again.

"And yet you are here?” 

The cringing flinch returns and he pulls his shoulders up to his ears, hunching a bit. “I just thought I could… earned...bowing out, maybe.” 

Her lips flatten together. “The most unbelievable part of your entire tall tale.” She says finally. “Words Steve Rogers would never utter for himself.” Her gun is back up. Almost fooled. “Earned bowing out.” She huffs to herself. “Wherever he is, he is ashamed of your mockery.” 

She thinks, for a minute, of Steve in the ice, Steve sacrificing himself, the determined courage in his voice, the currents of still bright grief.  _ That  _ had been an earned bowing out. This. She has no idea.

His head is bowed, and despite herself, with a sigh, she lays down her gun and touches his shoulder.

“You really believe you’re Steve, don’t you?” There’s a little bit of pitying there that Steve would hate, and his eyes do flash in slight frustration towards her, but then bow again, no, not nearly stubborn enough. Some kind of cheap imitation, concocted by Hydra, made to believe he is Captain America, come to life again. Her heart does feel a bit sad for him.

“I just thought.” He sighs again. “I thought we could have our dance, that you’d be...that you’d be happy to see me.” There’s something wistful lingering in his tone, and he seems to be somewhere very far away for a moment. He sounds unconvinced of himself for the first time, wavering. “I thought we wanted this.”

“Steve.” She addresses him before she can help herself, and his eyes shoot up. “If you are Steve.” She amends. “I have no idea how long it has been for you since you went into the water, but for me --” Their gaze locks for a minute and she sighs. “It’s a memory. A very nice, albeit a little painful, memory of a hope.” She lets her lips smile at him, compassionate somehow, despite her misgivings. “You can report back to your officers or to your future or wherever, and tell them, whatever you were after here, it simply doesn’t exist.” She pauses and tilts her head. “Don’t you think?” 

He makes something of a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and she squeezes. “Yeah.” The murmur is low, grieving again, loud pangs of grief that she knows she’d never fully be able to understand, even if he was real, even if she wanted to. A gulf of life between them. “Yeah.” 

“Alright.” She stands herself up, and then with a sigh of her own, crosses the room to the record player. Perhaps his story is true, perhaps an elaborate lie, she’ll try very hard not to wonder too much when he’s gone again, but since he’s here, why shouldn’t she take advantage? 

The music spins out around them and she turns, offering her hand.

It’s something, after all the imaginations, to have Steve in her arms, and for a minute, she allows herself to consider how it might be, if she took him at his word and let him stay. But the ravages of grief that sounded so loud echo in her ears, the strange unbidden yearning for a place not here that had struck him, the lack of parity between them that might never self-correct. And she shakes her head, no amount of familiar, though, changed, scent, no amount of strong chest and hopeful eyes are worth those risks. 

And as the notes string from one to the next, he whispers a confession, his arm tightening around her waist.

“Bucky, uhm, he’s back there.”

Which would be a rather strange lie for an imposter to tell her, all things considered. So she smiles up at him as he spins her out and dips her back. 

“And you are here?”

He smiles back at her and finally, in that moment, she sees a Steve that is so like her Steve, it borders on unbearable, resolved, ready, always back up onto his feet once more. She is angry at him for this and grateful.  _ One more moment,  _ the thought had crossed her mind so many times, and here they are, finally--a period at the end of a chapter. 

“Only for a dance.”

She squeezes his hand in answer.  _ I’ve missed you _ , she hopes she conveys. 

_ You’ll be fine.  _

\--

She turns for her coat a while later, dinner with Daniel, she tells him, unapologetically, and by the time she turns back, the room has been vacated. No more traces of ghosts, no lurking spectres, only the comfort of her spaces and the slightly melancholic strains of music that reverberate through the air left behind. 

There’s an ache in her, but it doesn’t well into her eyes, stays inside her bones, a little wearier, a little more at rest, indefinable. She hopes, wherever they are, they are happy, and then steps through the feeling, out into the glorious crispness of an early evening in fall.

One step after the other, onward in the life she lives. 


End file.
